


Comfort in the Cold (Story)

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-02-13
Updated: 1999-02-13
Packaged: 2018-11-11 03:06:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11139870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived atDue South Archive. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address onDue South Archive collection profile.





	Comfort in the Cold (Story)

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

COMFORT IN THE COLD

 

****

COMFORT IN THE COLD

by Renny Ramos

The Poem: 

You turn to me

like a frightened child.

I hold you in my arms

to soothe your grief.

You cling to me

as if I held your life in my hands.

And in that moment - 

we forget who we are.

The last gasp of pleasure finally dies away

and we lie against each other.

In our emptiness, our only escape 

was comfort in the cold.

\- The End - 

===================

The Story:

"I don't think you'd want to go in there."

I led Ray away from the door, the only barrier to the complete outpouring of madness. Outside, a mob of journalists waited, hungry for new prey. I drew out my arm and gently turned him away from the door. He won't be made part of this circus, I'd see to that. I'd kill all of them first.

Ray blindly followed my motions, and pretty soon we were seated in a quiet corner outside the hospital's operating room. I watched him silently. What was there to say? The woman he loved was dead.

I listened intently as he spoke about Irene. He had so many wonderful stories, such as the one when he first asked her to dance and she kept trying to lead. I think that, somehow, he believed that recounting the beauty of their past would save him from the dark insanity of what happened. So I drank in his memories, what else was there to do? I sat and listened. I watched him, until seeing his face all broken up in pain forced me to look away.

The last words I heard from him were not about her, but a plea for escape. "I don't think I can face Ma and Frannie - not now. Please ... can I stay over at your place tonight?"

We escaped through the hospital's backdoor. I called Mrs. Vecchio from a pay phone located outside the building to relay the message that Ray would be spending the night over at my apartment. I then hailed a cab that would take us home. Ray was silent throughout the trip. Once in a while, I'd steal a glance and see his face, all grim and expressionless. But I knew. The truth gave itself in those eyes, those twin pools of grief. 

At home, conversation was brief; limited only to basic, polite queries between host and guest. Would you like anything to eat or drink? Are you comfortable? Anything I can help you out with? With each question I posed, I received few, dazed mutterings of thanks. No, thank you. You don't have to. I'll be fine.

Nothing was fine.

He showered and put on the clothes I had lent him, clothes I had already outgrown. He lay down on my bed, and in a few minutes seemed to drift off to sleep. I took my place on the other side of the bed and looked at him, relieved that sleep had claimed him so quickly. A few hours to escape the pain, at least.

But it was too much to hope for. I had barely settled into sleep myself, when his cries ripped through the darkness. "Oh, God," he cried, bringing his hands up to cover his face. I drew him close to me. Before I knew it, I had cradled his head to my chest, my words of attempted comfort barely forming in my mouth as my sadness joined his.

He swam through sorrow in my arms, for what seemed to be forever. But his despair gave way, at last. His grip on my shirt relaxed, and his breathing resumed its normal pace.

The fist on my shirt unrolled and transformed itself into a gentle touch against my collarbone. Almost involuntarily, I lifted one hand and let my fingers cup themselves around his face. I felt his body shift, and I soon felt the warm breath pass through his lips onto my neck.

It was strange. There was no fear, no panic. Just a dim awareness of the activity. I looked at him and wondered. Perhaps he was just clutching at a dream; his eyes were closed as he pressed his lips gently against my mouth. Or perhaps he was searching for a drug within me, something to dull his unhappiness. 

That night, we pretended and tried to forget, tried to escape our hellish world. For a time, it seemed as if we would succeed. Naked against each other, we used our bodies to fill the emptiness that dwelt within us. 

The last gasp of pleasure died away at last, and I opened my eyes to look at him. Nothing had changed. 

He rolled away from me and turned his face to the wall. Even in the darkness, I saw the silent cries rip through his body like a lance.

We had failed. 

  * The End -



__

Before the blackbird,

Before the trouble of traffic and the mist unrolled,

I shall remember at the dark hour turning to you

For comfort in the cold."

Paul Dehn, "At the Dark Hour"

 

E-mail the author: Blue_Grey_Eyes@hotmail.com


End file.
